he doesn't scare me."
The room erupted in laughter.
Powell affectionately stroked the side of Pete's face. "That's my boy."
The engineers stayed and talked for another half hour. When they signaled that they were about to leave, Helen took Pete back to his room so that Palladino could speak with the engineers in private.
Broussard was jotting down some notes and unwittingly irking Palladino. "We ran into Susan Boward this morning, and she says that Peter and the other DATs are adjusting to their new routines well."
"Susan Boward don't know shit from mud."
The two engineers exchanged sidelong glances.
"O-kay," Powell responded.
The colonel suddenly grew somber. "I heard you guys got banged up a bit after we left back in Kentucky."
Broussard shrugged. "We survived."
Palladino nodded. "Some didn't. I lost five men. Two of them are still walking around."
Gloomy shadows began to pool around them. Broussard turned to Powell. "I think we've taken up enough of the colonel's time."
Broussard and Powell stood and Palladino walked them to the door.
They all shook hands.
Palladino was all smiles now. "Thanks for stopping by. I think Pete was really happy to see you."
"Same here," Broussard said. "Eric and I have known Peter and the others for a long time. They're almost like family to us."
"Yeah. I can tell."
Broussard's mobile phone ding-dinged twice. "Excuse me... . This is Neal."
A man's hysterical voice could be heard clear across the room. "They're gone! THEY'RE ALL GONE!"
Broussard turned away from the others and spoke in low tones. "Mike, slow down. Who's gone?"
The phone's speaker crackled with amplified energy, still allowing the caller's every word to be heard. "Everybody! My folks! My brothers! My aunties! They were leaving town ..." There were sobs. "The quake got 'em! My cousin just found them!"
The voice yowled like a wounded animal.
Broussard took a deep breath. "Mike, I'm still on rounds, but I'll call you later." He snapped the phone shut.
Palladino was eying him. "Sounds like someone's in a world of pain."
Broussard slipped the phone into his back pocket. "Tell me who isn't." The Redstone engineer grew serious. "Colonel, you and Major Avery are probably feeling some strain now. Living with DATs can be a handful. I know from personal experience. You've got a priority ops about to pop, and you've got a little sleep deprivation going on."
Palladino began to protest.
"It's all right. All of the families are having similar issues. The solution—one of the solutions—is to get you folks some solid vay-cay after the mission is completed. You have our numbers. We're your point men on this, all right? As soon as you get back, call us. I'll ask HR to make this a priority."
Palladino held open the door for them, his warmth gone. "And who says we're coming back?"
Broussard smiled. "You'd better come back. America is counting on you."
And now it was Palladino's turn to smile. "America can kiss my fat, wop ass."
"You and your men pull this off and she will."
After they had left, Helen enticed him into the dining room with a bowl of grapes. She pushed aside a tall stack of textbooks and binders.
He popped one of the juicy pieces of fruit into his mouth. "What's Pete up to?"
"Master Pete is resting."
Palladino slowly shook his head. "Pete, you lazy son-of-gun, you've got the right idea."
Helen then prepared lunch: a hot meatloaf sandwich, corn chips, and Patriot-made root beer.
She slid into the seat across from him. "Do you have any concerns about tomorrow?"
"One or two." He ignored her pensive expression. "We've got another credible lead about where those SAMs are being stored. I'm not wild about it being in this particular neighborhood, but we've gotta follow it up."
She absently flipped through a large children's book. It was a story about a family of raccoons living in New York City. "You think Pete is up to this?"
"Sure. DATs have their quirks, but runnin' from a good fight ain't one of them. At least that's what I hear. But, seeing's believing, I guess." He chewed on his sandwich.
"I don't know," she began. "They're children, and you don't send a child into combat."
"Helen, Pete was created in war. He's never known peace. So as far as his little mechanical brain is concerned, this is normal. And he and his little DAT pals go help fight bad guys with their families just like any other normal American family would."
Helen's mouth curled with displeasure. "What kind of a society would make a baby fight its battles?"
"Hush, woman!" He softened his voice. "Listen, don't romanticize this. A DAT is not a human being. It's a war machine."
"A war machine who wants to listen to bedtime stories."
Hearing her words, Palladino could not remain stern. "And insists on different voices for each of the characters."
They both smiled and shook their heads.
"Trust me. They're up to it."
She waited a moment before speaking. "Are you up to this, Gene?" She rarely called him by his first name.
His eyes flashed in anger. "Of course not! After I finish eating I'm gonna go have a good piss on myself!" He threw down his food. "What kind of asinine question is that?"
He stormed off into the backyard and stayed there until it grew dark.
When he finally came back inside, he found Helen in Pete's room. Pete was in bed and she was sitting in her rocking chair next to him, reading from a book. There was a large glass of sparkling wine on the windowsill behind her.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey, yourself," she replied, smiling.
Palladino quickly crossed the room and without saying anything kissed her fully on the lips. "I'm sorry."
Helen was so startled at the gesture that she jumped and knocked over her wine glass. Peter's comm board was flashing.
"Dad! Mama!"
Palladino sat down on Pete's bed. "Hey, son. What are you and Mommy doing?"
"The Mama is reading a book with me."
"I see. Mama, what is our selection today?"
Helen held up a slim tome. "Francis the Puzzled Frog."
"I see. What's got Francis so puzzled?"
"Just about everything! We're almost finished. He loves this series. And I've gone through most of the books already. We'll have to think about what we can order for next month."
Palladino grunted. "Yeah. Maybe all this craziness will be over by then."
She smiled with encouragement. "You bet!"
Palladino took in the dark circles beneath her eyes and felt compassion. "Pete, would you mind if Dad read tonight?"
"Dad reads."
Palladino wrinkled his nose. "Son, is that a statement or a question?"
Helen handed the book to him, dimmed the lamp on the nightstand, and leaned back into her chair. Meanwhile, Palladino wedged himself in between Pete and a velvety hippopotamus almost the size of the AI himself. He then dramatically cleared his throat and began to read:
"Francis was sitting beside the beach one morning. The beach had lots of soft white sand and lots of sparkling blue water to look at. A big yellow butterfly sat down beside him. Francis saw two big spots on the butterfly's wings. Francis wondered where the butterfly had gotten those big spots. He could not have painted the spots on by himself. Could the butterfly's mother have painted those spots on his wings? And why was the butterfly on the beach anyway? This puzzled Francis."
He looked up from the book. Pete was staring hard at the velvety hippopotamus. Helen was asleep, head back, mouth open.
"Pete?"
The DAT ignored him. Too busy processing, no doubt.
Palladino closed the book and stepped outside of Pete's bedroom. He pulled out his cell phone and called Marsha Van de Veer. "Hey, Marsha. Would you mind coming over and watching Pete while Helen takes a
nap? You know we've got alignment tonight. Colleen? Sure, bring her along. Thanks."
Palladino tiptoed back into Pete's room. "Pete?"
The motorized eyes turned to him. They were perhaps the most artful feature on the AIs. The oversized irises were similar to a man's, but not a solid color. Rather, they resembled a tiny galaxy of a hundred different brilliant hues. The effect was mesmerizing. An Italian did those eyes. "Pete, I have to go to a meeting soon. Ms. Van de Veer is coming to visit while Mama sleeps. And Colleen is coming over, too. Do you understand, son?"
"Yes. The Mama is sleeping."
The DAT crept over towards the still sleeping woman and placed a protective arm on her leg.
Palladino's heart stirred. "Good boy."
A Patriot lieutenant drove Palladino out to Building 5, located on the west side of town. Building 5 had been an ancillary factory operated by NESCO, a pre-World War II manufacturer of granite cookware. Now it served as a cloaked DARPA compound with a permanent staff of thirty. A large-lettered sign bolted to the factory's concrete façade read "Macinaw Works." None of the Granite City citizens moving back and forth outside on the brick sidewalks seemed the wiser.
Palladino presented his credentials at the guard station and then strode inside. The cool air swirled down upon him from the ten-meter high ceiling fans. He loved coming to this place. The hulking, almost ancient-looking equipment that had ground out hundreds of thousands of pots and pans long ago still smelled of fresh grease and human sweat. Palladino ran a finger along a fat iron pipe beaded with cold condensation. Building 5 stood as a testament to the American men who helped keep the country running by ripping the innards out of the earth with their bare hands and pounding them into service for households near and far.
That was the sentimentalist view of the situation. In fact,